


(un)breakable

by a_matter_of_loyalty



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Iron Dad, Midtown High, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Press Conference, Televised Speech, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, the press
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-01-24 00:40:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18560422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_matter_of_loyalty/pseuds/a_matter_of_loyalty
Summary: “We all lost people,” Tony Stark says, his eyes unblinking and sad, devastated and broken, and the heavens weep.He‘s right, of course: they all lost people they loved in the Decimation. But it isn’t until the people of Earth realize that even the greatest heroes have been transformed by grief that they finally see the severity of the situation.(Three weeks after the Decimation that robbed the universe of 50% of its inhabitants, Tony Stark finally re-emerges in the public eye. Only this time, he doesn’t broadcast his message through a press conference, or a professional interview, but rather a televised speech from inside the gym of Midtown School of Science and Technology.)———Or, Tony Stark has everything—until he doesn’t.





	(un)breakable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, this is the first fanfic I've ever written in this fandom (and of course it has to be an Iron Dad fic). Here's hoping it doesn't completely suck.
> 
> Honestly, this fic is a culmination of me ignoring my responsibilities, procrastinating on all my homework, and stressing over Endgame (that movie is going to absolutely destroy me and I know it). But, anyway. I hope you'll enjoy this regardless.
> 
> Also: the title of this chapter is taken from lyrics of the song Out Loud by Gabbie Hanna.
> 
> Soo, onwards.

“What do you think the assembly’s going to be about?” Ned asked quietly. He sounded as curious as ever, his question still drenched in the innocent wonder he always seemed to have an abundance of, but this time his eyes were dull, miserable. His voice, too, was inherently different, no longer carrying his particular brand of cheer and excitement. Instead, his voice was joyless and muted, as if there was no one left to listen to him.

At the very least, that was how Ned felt. Ever since they’d first met in primary school, he and Peter had been inseparable. Whether he was happy, or excited, or upset, or angry, it was always Peter he vented to, rambling on and on to Peter’s seemingly unending patience. Ned had never once imagined that there would come a time when Peter wouldn’t be there to listen to him.

MJ, beside him, blinked almost uncomprehendingly at the question. “I don’t know,” she said honestly—she seemed to do that a lot more now; be honest. “A memorial service in commemoration of all the students and staff members lost, maybe. Or, knowing our school, they’ll just glaze over the Decimation and start lecturing us on safe sex as if—“

She stopped abruptly, her lips slamming shut. For a second, just a second, Ned swore he saw tears gather at the corners of her eyes. But then she blinked again, and the trace of sadness was gone.

Ned swallowed and looked away. MJ may not have been able to bring herself to say it, but he heard the rest of her words regardless: _As if anything matters now, in the wake of half the universe going up in flames._

“Right,” Ned croaked out, barely able to recognize his own voice. It was a familiar feeling by now—too many times he had listened to himself speak about meaningless things to his parents over breakfast, or stared into the mirror at his red-rimmed eyes and haunted gaze, and realized he no longer knew who he was.

He hated it. He hated that losing Peter had cost him himself.

He hated that he had lost Peter at all.

“Hey, Leeds,” MJ’s voice broke through his despair. He gazed across the lunch table to find her smiling sadly at him. “You okay?”

Ned flinched at her words. _What kind of a question is that?_ he wanted to demand, wanted to get up in her face and shake his fist and _shout_ until the reality of their situation hit her and her nonchalance fell away. For a second, he thought of doing it, thought of throwing caution to the wind and shattering the fragile balance that had settled between them amidst Peter’s disappearance. 

But the second the words gathered on his tongue, he noticed the tension laced in the hunch of her shoulders and knew he couldn’t do that to her—to _either_ of them. He heaved a sigh, his own shoulders slumping and his anger crumbling.

Because of course he wasn’t okay. Neither of them were.

Frankly, he thought, he would be genuinely surprised if _anyone_ on Earth was okay right now.

“I’m sorry,” Ned said, then, because he didn’t know what else to do. What words were there left to say when everything seemed lost?

MJ stiffened. Ned wondered, for a moment, if she would dismiss his apology and go back to pretending she was unscathed by the Decimation. 

But she didn’t.

Instead, she smiled, a crooked smile that twisted her face and left Ned frozen, and said, “Don’t.”

_Just... don’t._

Ned took in a breath. “Okay,” he said, “okay.” _Sorries are useless here, Ned,_ he scolded himself. _You know that._ _Stop throwing words at a problem that can’t be fixed by anything, much less worthless platitudes._

Neither of them were okay.

The other students looked at MJ and saw a heartless girl, emotionless and unbroken when everyone else seemed left in tatters. But Ned looked at MJ and saw someone who wasn’t whole: he saw the falter in her steady stride when she passed Peter’s locker every morning; he saw the furrow in her brow whenever a teacher still called out _Peter Parker_ during attendance and was met with nothing but silence; he saw the way her eyes would dart to the empty space beside Ned every lunch period during their stilted conversations that was always missing something ( _someone_ ) nowadays; he saw the strain in her expression every time she turned on her phone and was confronted with her wallpaper—Peter’s beaming face pressed between hers and Ned’s.

He saw all the ways she _felt_ Peter’s absence.

Grief didn’t affect MJ the same way it affected Ned. But that didn’t mean she _wasn’t_ affected.

It didn’t mean that the grief didn’t linger, in every nook and cranny of both their lives.

:::

When their lunch period ended with the loud, startling ringing of the bell, neither of them jumped. (They didn’t react to much these days.)

MJ simply marked her place in her book with a bookmark (gifted to her by Peter, Ned knew, _god_ he knew), stood up slowly, and offered Ned a nod.

The show of solidarity left Ned breathless. He stared blankly up at her, and a part of him was waiting for someone to chime in with a teasing “Are you waiting for us, MJ? Aw, I always knew you cared!”

But the remark never came. He knew MJ heard it, too—the deafening silence that took up the space left behind by Peter.

Ned pushed himself to his feet eventually, noticing that everywhere around him in the cafeteria, everyone else seemed to be affected by the same sluggishness of loss. He couldn’t blame them.

Every second, he found it harder and harder to breathe in a world that was no longer home to his best friend. It was difficult, almost impossible, to find motivation when Peter used to be the one urging him along at every turn, an encouraging grin on his face.

Ned exhaled shakily and turned away from the memory. He knew if he let himself dwell on Peter now, if he let himself cry, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

“Come on, Leeds,” MJ murmured to him as he rounded the table and stood beside her. Together they stood in silence for another moment, and Ned realized all at once that he hadn’t heard MJ call him ‘loser’ since the Decimation.

He didn’t dare ask why. (He figured he already knew why, anyway. ‘Loser’ was her term of endearment for _both_ him and Peter. It didn’t feel right to leave Peter behind and be the only one worthy of MJ’s bestowed nickname of ‘loser.’)

“I hope they don’t hold a memorial service,” Ned whispered as they crossed the cafeteria and began to head towards the gym. He didn’t know why he said it, only that he meant it. “It feels... _condescending_ , somehow. I don’t know, I just – the other students, they...”

“They didn’t _know_ him,” MJ finished knowingly.

Ned nodded. “They all – they didn’t see the Peter I did.” He paused. “The – the Peter _we_ did, I mean. Sorry, MJ.”

MJ just nodded understandingly. “Yeah,” she said, her voice hushed and almost reverent. It was times like this that reminded Ned that he wasn’t the only one who’d lost Peter. MJ had, too. And – and _May,_ oh god. 

Peter had been all May had left. ( _Had been._ The past tense was killing Ned.)

“Maybe it’ll be a Rapping with Cap video,” Ned mused, and was rewarded with a small, amused smile splitting MJ’s face. It died a second later, but he counted all the victories he could get, no matter how small they were. He had to, or he knew he would go insane.

“Maybe,” MJ agreed. “I hope it isn’t the puberty one.” Her nose scrunched up in distaste, and Ned cracked a quiet laugh.

“Oh my god, please don’t be that one,” he snickered. 

All too quickly, though, the mood grew somber, their grins fading into frowns. The moment felt so incomplete without Peter there to shudder and point out that ‘the puberty PSA isn’t _nearly_ as bad as the _sex-ed_ one, _come on_ guys.’

“Okay,” MJ interjected sharply, “you need to lighten up, _pronto_.” He just _looked_ at her, unimpressed, and she pointed a finger at him in warning. “That’s an _order_ , Leeds.”

Ned squinted. “Says _you_ ,” he snorted, pushing her playfully on the shoulder.

She rolled her eyes at him. “I’m the exception,” she said arrogantly, because she could.

Ned stuck his tongue out. “Conceited, much,” he snarked. “You’d think you—“

His voice died abruptly when they stopped in front of the gym. He wasn’t sure if they were some of the early ones or some of the late stragglers; he used to be able to tell by the degree of chatter and noise escaping through the tiny crack between the gym doors, but these days even a room full of teenagers could be as silent as a graveyard in the dead of night.

Ned winced. _Not the best analogy at a time like this,_ he conceded.

“Well?” MJ’s eyebrow was arched, almost challengingly.

Ned sighed. “Let’s get this over with,” he mumbled, pushing the doors open and ducking inside.

Luckily, they weren’t too late—most of the students had already arrived, but the assembly hadn’t officially started yet and there were still a few seats left untouched. Ned and MJ quickly claimed seats of their own, Ned feeling Peter’s loss especially hard when he found himself looking for only two empty seats side-by-side instead of three.

Once they had settled in, MJ returned to her book, and Ned ended up pulling out his phone. They were both trying, _so hard,_ but sometimes it was just too much of a struggle to pretend that Peter’s absence wasn’t affecting every minute they spent together.

They were still a team, and they still had each other’s backs—he didn’t they _could_ ever stop having each other’s backs, not after everything they’d been through—but it was different now. And sometimes, every time he looked at her, all he saw was Peter _not_ with them. Sometimes, when it was too hard to even try to carry on a conversation, all Ned could hear in the unbearable silence was all the words Peter would have said. All the words he would never say anymore.

Ned hated to admit it, but it was draining. ( _Everything_ was draining.)

He realized all too quickly, however, that drifting back to his phone was a mistake. He hadn’t really had the chance to aimlessly browse his phone since before the Decimation—in the past few weeks, he’d only ever used the device to call or text his family and MJ.

But his parents were busy at work, his little sister busy at school, and MJ busy beside him. Without a _reason_ to be on his phone, Ned inevitably found himself launching his photo gallery—

—and staring down at his phone, breath stolen from his lungs.

The most recent photo in his album was of him and Peter on the bus to MoMa. They were both beaming into the camera, Ned’s eyes wide and full of excitement as he flashed a peace sign. Peter, who’d been responsible for capturing the selfie, had been mid-laughter when he took the shot, evident by the blur around his doubtlessly shaking shoulders and the way he’d thrown his head back slightly, mouth wide open in a gaping laugh. 

(If Ned tried hard enough, he could practically _hear_ Peter’s laugh echoing in his ears, fond and exasperated and too loud. He missed that laugh. He’d give anything just to hear it one more time.)

Ned didn’t remember what they’d been talking about, or why Peter had been laughing, but... _God_ , Peter looked so carefree, liberated by joy.

(Oblivious to the fate that would befall him before the day was over.)

Before Ned could start falling to pieces over a single photo (just one out of hundreds, Jesus, _thousands_ ), his phone was snatched out of his hand. He looked to the side to come face-to-face with MJ glaring at him, shutting off his phone without a second glance. “ _Stop it,_ Leeds,” she glowered. “Don’t _do_ this to yourself.”

Ned sniffed. “Peter _loved_ taking pictures,” he whispered, like it was a secret. “It used to annoy me so much, how he would sometimes make us stop whatever we were doing just so he could snap a photo of us.”

( _“Come on, Ned,” Peter cajoled, eyes bright with laughter. “It’ll only take a minute.”_

_“More like ten,” Ned grumbled, jabbing Peter’s ribcage accusingly. “I_ know _you, Parker.”_

_Peter grinned sheepishly. “Please?” he tried. When Ned didn’t budge, he whined, “_ Look _at it, Ned—it looks like it belongs in a museum! It’d be a crime to just walk past it.”_

_“It’s graffiti, Peter,” Ned deadpanned, unamused._

_“_ Good _graffiti,” Peter argued._

_“No.”_

_“Just one picture, I’m begging you.”_

_“No!”_

_“...please?”)_

MJ was breathing heavily. “ _Leeds_ —“

“I want to get mad at him for taking photos of me when I’m not ready again,” Ned blurted out, remembering all too well Peter’s protests of _but it’s called a candid, Ned, you’re not_ supposed _to be ready_ in response to Ned’s complaints.

MJ _froze_ , her grip tightening on her book until the papers creased around her fingers.

Ned didn’t seem to notice. Now that he’d started, he couldn’t swallow down the rest: “I want to roll my eyes at him for making me stop eating just so he can photograph our food first. I want to take another _stupid_ selfie of us in front of some random statue or other. _God_ , MJ, I’d take _anything_. I just – I want him _back_. I want him here so I can yell at him and joke around with him and gossip about how Star Wars is better than Star Trek and be his guy in the chair. I want to make fun of his dumb science pun t-shirts—”

MJ snorted at that, the spike of amusement muting the anguish for a brief moment, her mutter of ‘you wear the same lame t-shirts, Leeds’ falling on deaf ears.

The moment passed, and MJ had to redirect her focus to keeping her tears at bay.

“I want to ask him a thousand and one questions about his crime-fighting alter-ego. I want to get mad at him for leaving footprints on my ceiling. I want to tease him about Liz. I want to build LEGOs with him. I want to have a seven-hour Star Wars movie marathon in his tiny bedroom. I want to... I want to pretend to be annoyed with him when he steals one of my sandwiches during lunch.”

Ned stopped suddenly. MJ was silently glad for the reprieve—all the memories she’d tried to hold back of Peter were flooding to the surface, and she didn’t know what would happen when they broke through.

“I just want my best friend back,” Ned said finally, brokenly. “That’s—that’s _all_ I want, MJ.”

“Yeah,” MJ said hoarsely, wide-eyed and trembling minutely. “Yeah, me too.”

Ned squeezed his eyes shut. “Fuck,” he whispered. “ _Fuck_. I don’t know if I can—“

He was cut off by the lights turning off suddenly. He froze, startled, and was privately relieved that he had been interrupted before he could confess that he was _lost_ without Peter. MJ doubtlessly already knew it, but it made it feel less real, somehow, if he didn’t admit it to himself.

On the makeshift stage, Principal Morita took a few steps forward and gripped the edges of the wooden podium. “Good afternoon, students,” he greeted into the silence. Even he seemed less cheery than usual. “I’m sure you’re all wondering what’s keeping you from your last classes of the day.”

When MJ held out Ned’s phone, it took Ned more than a few seconds to realize she meant to hand it back to him. Ned pocketed it without a word, chest still heaving from the effort of his rant, eyes still stinging with the thought of Peter.

“To be honest,” Principal Morita carried on, “I had no intention of calling an assembly when I woke up this morning. But before lunch, I received a _very_ interesting phone call.” He paused, briefly, and the smallest of smiles crept up his face. There was an uncanny excitement there that Ned hadn’t seen in what seemed like forever. 

Whatever this assembly was for, it was clearly something big.

“So it is with _immense pleasure_ that I introduce our guest speaker today. Truthfully, I’m not quite sure myself why he’s chosen our humble school to make his first public appearance in – in _weeks_ , but for some reason, he has.”

Ned and MJ exchanged a wary glance. _Guest speaker? Public appearance?_ Ned mouthed at MJ, who looked just as confused until she glanced around the gym and finally realized that students and faculty members weren’t the only ones present. She gaped, stunned, and nudged Ned until he, too, followed her line of sight and spotted the crowd of reporters and cameramen gathered to one side of the gym.

“Who the _hell_...” MJ whispered.

The rest of her question went unspoken, but she didn’t have to wait long to wonder—seconds later, the principal grinned proudly and spoke into the microphone, “Without further ado, I’d like to call Tony Stark, owner of Stark Industries and Iron Man himself, to the stage.”

Ned’s jaw dropped. MJ’s book nearly fell out of her lap. And all around them, dozens of students came to life with hushed whispers that weren’t hushed at all.

Indeed, not two seconds later, Tony Stark sauntered onto the stage and met Principal Morita at the center. Principal Morita held out his hand hopefully, and Mr. Stark indulged him; Morita looked dazed the entire time they shook hands.

“Thank you for arranging this on such short notice,” Iron Man said eloquently, his charming words a jarring contrast to the solemn mood that had preceded his entry. 

The effect of Tony Stark’s presence was immediate: the cloud of misery seemed to lift from the crowd, replaced by excited chatter and awe-filled stares.

Even now, amid the fallout of the world's end, the public loved Tony Stark.

The billionaire smoothly replaced Principal Morita behind the podium, turning to smile at the audience. His familiar sunglasses were already perched on his face, and his signature smirk ready for the cameras—the same cameras that immediately set off with endless flashes and shuttering noises as the press began taking pictures of Tony Stark for the first time since he disappeared into a spaceship weeks earlier. 

(The world hadn’t even _known_ Tony Stark was back, Ned remembered, until Stark Industries’ CEO Pepper Potts released an official statement over a week following the Decimation. Evidently, he’d clawed his way back to Earth and landed in Wakanda, welcomed by the mourning and newly-crowned Queen Shuri.)

Mr. Stark tolerated the flashing cameras for a minute longer before he held up a single hand. Almost immediately, the audience obediently fell silent, and the cameramen stopped snapping photos of the billionaire.

The influence he held over them all was undeniable.

“Thank you,” Mr. Stark said again when everyone had complied with his non-verbal command.

Ned felt his jaw unhinge for the second time in five minutes. Now that the excess noise had died, he could hear Mr. Stark all too clearly, and he sounded... he sounded so _different._ In all of Mr. Stark’s extensive record of interviews, press conferences, and public appearances, Ned had never heard him this subdued.

In that moment, Tony Stark sounded just like anyone else: lost, broken, _grieving_.

But Ned knew, just as the rest of the world did, that Pepper Potts was alive. And so was Colonel Rhodes. Even Mr. Stark's Head of Security, Mr. Happy (as Peter loved to call him), had survived the Decimation.

To everyone else, it would appear as if Tony Stark’s found family was still whole and complete.

Ned realized otherwise. His heart lurching to his throat, his mind flashed to Peter without his permission, to his best friend’s contagious grins and giddy laughter and uncontrollable rambling ( _Oh my god, Ned, you won’t believe what happened on patrol yesterday—I was caught up in this gang fight, and the men had guns and knives and everything and – and they had a dog, a_ dog _, Ned! He was so brown and furry and cute and I just wanted to_ hug _him_ , _I—_ ), and he wondered if Tony felt Peter’s loss the same way Ned did—like a gaping wound, an amputated limb, _a missing heart_.

And then, faster than the audience could react, Mr. Stark reached up to take off his sunglasses in one swift move, and Ned figured he must.

Because the man staring back at him was not Tony Stark. He couldn’t possibly be Tony Stark.

Tony Stark was untouchable, infallible, _unmovable_. Tony Stark was proud and witty and sarcastic and arrogant _to a fault._

( _“Peter, are you okay?” Ned asked urgently. His friend’s dazed eyes and trembling hands made him more than a little uneasy. “Is it... one of_ those days _?”_ Is it a sensory overload? _was what he didn’t say. He didn’t need to—they both knew it was what he meant._

_Peter blinked, stuck in a haze that didn’t seem to want to let him go. “I – no,” he shook his head. “No, it’s...”_

_He hesitated._

_Ned’d heart plummeted to his feet. How bad did it have to be, he wondered, that Peter didn’t want to tell him?_

_Peter told him_ everything _._

_Five minutes later, long after Ned had lost any hope of getting a real answer, Peter twisted the thick fabric of his sweater in his hands and whispered, as if he still couldn’t believe it himself, “It’s Mr. Stark.”_

_Ned sucked in a breath. He didn’t know Tony Stark as well as Peter did—all he knew was what Peter told him._

_But Peter had always painted ‘Mr. Stark’ out to be a hero, resilient and strong-willed and indomitable._

_Today, though, Peter stared at him through bleary eyes and confessed, “He’s not okay, Ned. He—he had a panic attack yesterday and I was_ there _and I didn’t know what to_ do _, I—“_

_Ned gathered Peter into his arms wordlessly, pretending he couldn’t feel the wetness that immediately soaked into his t-shirt._

_“I don’t know how to_ help _him,” Peter gasped through a muffled sob. “He’s not—he’s not the Tony Stark the public sees. He’s not the heartless monster everyone makes him out to be.”_

_Ned closed his eyes and drew Peter in closer. He didn’t tell Peter it would be okay, because he didn’t know if that would be the truth._

_“He’s – he’s_ hurting _, Ned,” Peter stuttered. “He’s_ been _hurting for a long time.”_

_Listening to Peter cry into his shirt, Ned felt his chest tighten with fear, and he had to ask himself:_

If the heroes are all out there saving us, then who’s saving them?)

The man standing on that stage today was anything _but_ emotionless, Ned realized. The tinted sunglasses had hidden Mr. Stark from the world before, but now, with them hanging loosely from Mr. Stark’s fingers, _everyone_ could see the exhaustion weighing down his gaze, the tired lines framing his forehead, the red that colored his eyes with the telltale sign of grief.

Mr. Stark had never looked more vulnerable.

Naturally, because the press was full of the type of vultures MJ so often complained about, the cameramen and paparazzi impulsively began snapping photos again, rude and obtrusive. Ned expected Mr. Stark to immediately put his sunglasses (read: _his shield_ ) back on, but he didn’t.

He didn’t even seem to fully register everyone’s reactions. Instead, the expression on his face was dazed, unseeing even though his eyes were wide open.

(Ned knew the feeling. _All too well._ )

When the commotion finally died a second time two minutes later, Mr. Stark leaned towards the mic and started speaking, his eyes dark for a reason other than the dim lighting.

:::

Everything— _everyone_ —was so _loud_. Tony had never hated high school more than he did then, walking up to the stage and greeting Peter’s principal with a handshake and a “thank you.”

He hated it even more when the same cameras he’d been accustomed to his whole life snapped more photos of him than they had in months. 

After he removed his sunglasses, it took the press even longer to calm down. Personally, Tony wanted to _scream_ at them all. He felt like his _world_ had _ended_ , and yet all _they_ cared about was who could take the best (or _worst_ ) photo of him to spread to everyone in the states.

It made him more than a little uncomfortable, staring into an ocean of Peter’s peers and ruthless reporters, knowing that they were all staring back at him. Knowing that they could all _see_ him for the hollow shell of a man he was now.

He felt so _exposed_.

But even though every whisper felt like another dagger stabbing into the still-healing wound Thanos had carved into him, Tony couldn’t bring himself to re-armor himself with his sunglasses. He wasn’t doing this for himself, after all.

He was here for _Peter_. Peter, who’d admired him unquestioningly and called him his hero. Peter, who’d always been thrilled to spend time with Tony even if only in the lab, geeking out over all the newest technology. Peter, who was so smart and so kind and so selfless and – and just so much _better_ than everyone (than _him_ ).

Peter, who deserved so much more than the ending he got. Who deserved to be seen as the hero he was. Who deserved to be _remembered_.

(Tony would _always_ remember him. He didn’t think he _could_ forget.)

Tony had been lying to the media his entire life, but Peter was worth more than another deception. Peter was worth _everything_ , and Tony wanted nothing more than to give him exactly that.

Standing here in front of dozens of impressionable teens, preparing to pour his heart out about the boy who’d snuck into his life and into his heart, Tony knew he couldn’t pretend. He couldn’t just hide behind a pair of sunglasses and play Peter’s death off as anything _less_ than the end of _his universe_.

(Thanos had thought that he was only taking 50% of the universe when he snapped his fingers, but he’d been wrong. Because Thanos had taken the _entirety_ of _his_.)

It was with Peter’s selflessness in his mind that Tony took a breath and began:

“I’m sure you’ve all noticed that everywhere around the world, people began to fade three weeks ago. The Avengers and I have been calling it The Snap, but word on the street is people are referring to it as the Decimation. I suppose the Decimation is more accurate, given the sheer magnitude of all we’ve lost.”

Tony quieted for a moment, trying to ignore all the cameras pointed at him, undoubtedly recording his every word. But this wasn’t for the cameras. It wasn’t for the rest of the world.

It was for Peter, who was already dead and gone. Who’d already moved on, yet Tony couldn’t seem to do the same.

“I know you’re all looking for an explanation,” he said. “But the truth is, I don’t have one for you. All I can tell you is this: three weeks ago, we fought a beast who called himself the Mad Titan. _Thanos._ The monster responsible for killing 50% of all life in the universe, and destroying the lives of all those who remain.”

_50% of all living creatures. In the universe._

Tony could practically feel the horror of his audience. He’d been fighting off the same horror ever since Titan.

And he knew—he _knew—_ that everyone watching him could also hear the words he _didn’t_ say: _We lost. The Avengers failed._

It was their fault. _His_ fault, because what nobody else knew was that Strange had given up the Time Stone, which had been _instrumental_ to Thanos’s victory, in exchange for Tony’s life.

Tony still didn’t get _why_. He wasn’t worth it. He wasn’t worth more than half the universe. More than _Peter_.

(It should have been him.)

“In the aftermath, the rest of the world has been trying to move on, and I don’t blame you. It seems impossible, after all, to reverse a situation like this. But no matter how slim our chances, _I can’t move on_ ,” he exhaled raggedly. He paused, let his gaze fall briefly to the floor, and then straightened his posture, staring fiercely at the audience, mimicking a confidence he did not feel. “Along with the rest of the Avengers, a few warriors from across the galaxy, and Queen Shuri of Wakanda who has been generous enough to lend us her help and her lab, I’ve been trying to find a solution.”

All movement in the gym careened to a halt, shock and disbelief filling the air. Around the globe, everyone else watching Tony Stark’s speech stilled in much the same way.

_A solution?_ they all asked themselves. _Is it possible?_

“And I’m not asking you to believe me,” Tony continued. “I’m not asking any of you to have faith that we will succeed. I’m not asking you all to get your hopes up if you don’t trust what I’m saying. But what I _am_ doing is telling you that the Avengers will do _whatever_ it takes to get back all the people we’ve lost. All the people we didn’t get to say goodbye to.”

He smiled then, grim and mirthless. 

“We call ourselves the Avengers because if we can’t save the people we love, then at the very least we’ll fight to avenge them,” he broke off, stumbling over silence for a belated moment.

_The people we love._ His words echoed in his mind. _Love, love, love—_

Peter.

He loved Peter. His _kid_.

“But this time, revenge isn’t _enough_ ,” Tony snapped back to himself, pulling himself together long enough to glare into the nearest camera, imagining Thanos on the other side. “I _refuse_ to allow Thanos to take half of our people from us.”

The crowd’s murmurs grew louder.

“So I _promise_ you all”—Tony swallowed, remembering his last promise (to _Peter_ ), remembering hitched sobs and quivering hands and shallow breaths and _you’re alright,_ remembering that the last thing he’d ever said to Peter Parker was a _lie—_ “the Avengers will find a way.”

The cameras went _wild._ The reporters did, too, jumping up into his line of sight over and over again, trying to catch his attention, roaring question upon question at him.

The students and the teachers—they were left in silence, staring at him with a worshipping kind of wonder that reminded him all too vividly of Peter. 

(Peter used to look at him like he’d hung the moon and the stars all for him. What Peter didn’t know was that if that were the case, then he was only capable of doing so because he had Peter.)

_For you, Peter._ “We’ll find a way,” he repeated. “We’ll get them back, _however_ long it takes.”

He let the claim settle for a few seconds before nodding once, sharp and certain, and pointing at the first reporter. 

In the end, it only took four reporters to get to the question he’d always known was coming.

“Kelly Robinson, from the New York Bulletin. Mr. Stark, your fiancée made it clear that the press was to leave you alone following your return to Earth because you were heavily injured. Given the losses we all faced, and the personal wounds you already received, why haven’t you given up? What are you still fighting for?”

Tony’s facade of growing confidence immediately collapsed at her words, crumbling into dust the same way Peter had. How could he stay strong in the face of those questions?

_What are you still fighting for?_

Steve had asked him the same thing, after he’d woken up in the med-bay to the concerned stares of the Rogue Avengers. Clint, too, had been curious, Tony had known.

After all, in their eyes, Tony hadn’t lost anyone. He still had all the people he loved—Pepper, Rhodey, Happy.

He’d walked through fire and come out on the other side unscathed.

(Except he hadn’t.)

At the time, Tony had recoiled away from the question. He’d frozen up and refused to answer, hearing his heartbeat grow louder and quicker and more panicked through the machine hooked to his heart.

And Steve and Clint both had taken one look at the tears in his eyes, the desperation with which he’d clutched his chest, and the insanity in his stare, and wisely stopped asking.

They’d realized he was determined to see this through, and it had been enough.

Tony knew the press wouldn’t be so kind.

_What are you still fighting for?_

He didn’t answer her question, not immediately and not directly. He knew she wouldn’t get it.

None of them would.

He _needed_ them to understand. To _see_ just how _good_ a person Peter had been.

(Too good for this world.)

“My name is Tony Stark,” he said instead, “and I am Iron Man. I’m sure you’re all wondering why I need to say that—you all know who I am, after all.” Tony cracked a smile, but it was weak and the joke fell flat. No one laughed—it wasn’t funny, not anymore.

“But today, standing here in the gym of Midtown School of Science and Technology, I am not that man at all. I am not Tony Stark—Genius, Billionaire, Playboy, Philanthropist. I am not Iron Man, the superhero, the Avenger. _Frankly_ ”—his voice was bitter, venomous—“I don’t feel like a hero at all these days.”

He broke off into a chuckle that was more pained than amused.

He sought out Kelly Robinson amongst the reporters, locking eyes with her until she flinched and stepped backwards uncertainly. “Today,” he began, and though his voice was quiet, it still carried over the silence, “I am just another man who’s been hit by an unimaginable tragedy.”

Robinson’s eyes widened. Tony didn’t have to look around to know that everyone else’s did, too.

“We all—" Tony stopped, stumbling over words and choking back his grief. “We all lost _too_ much in the Decimation,” his voice was strangled, nothing at all like what they knew of him.

They were beginning to think they didn’t know him at all.

“Three weeks ago,” he started over, “some of you lost friends, some of you lost _family_. Some of you lost your mother, your father, your brothers and sisters. Three weeks ago, I—“

He breathed in a desperate gasp that didn’t seem to fill his lungs with air, feeling the ground crack and splinter beneath his feet, the air grow cold to his skin, the world start to crash around his ears.

His composure broke apart at the seams. 

“Three weeks ago,” he repeated, a whisper of loss, “I lost my _kid_.”

And the world stopped spinning.

Tony found Robinson’s eyes again. He pretended not to notice the ashen complexion of her face, or the regret in her eyes.

None of that mattered.

“You asked me why I still fight.” His words punched through the curtain of silence, cutting like the serrated edge of a knife. “The answer is simple.”

He smiled, lips curling to reveal teeth, a vengeful snarl. Thanos would pay.

“I fight for him. I fight for the smile on his face. I fight for movie marathons and game nights and afternoons in the lab.” He shoved his fists into his pockets, not caring that he was making the expensive fabric crease and crumple, ruining the lines of his suit. His PR managers would have a field day with that. “I fight for the day I can hold him in my arms again and tell him I love him.”

If he’d thought the crowd had been loud before, it was nothing compared to the noise they emitted now, screaming over one another to be heard. And yet despite the cacophony of sounds, it was Ned’s gasp and quiet _holy shit_ Tony heard, his voice deafening to Tony’s ears after all the ridiculous videos Peter had shown him of he and Ned doing stupid things.

Tony found Ned easily, Peter’s best friend a familiar face to him even though they had personally only ever met once. Ned looked _devastated._

Tony flinched. God, he should have approached Ned personally first, should have gotten over his own fears and told Ned the truth of what had happened.

Ned deserved better than finding out Peter had died in a speech open to the rest of the world. (It was one thing to suspect Peter had been Dusted. It was another thing entirely to have it confirmed.)

_I’m sorry, Ned._

He was such a coward. He’d almost been too afraid to tell even _May_. It had taken him almost _two weeks_ to remind himself she had the right to know. It was the least he‘d owed her.

He’d been terrified of her lashing out at him, even though he knew he would have deserved it. But Peter’s aunt... she was even stronger than he’d realized. 

It was no wonder Peter loved her so much, Tony had realized when he’d finally let the words _he died_ fall from his mouth like a confession. Because May had _thanked_ him.

Her nephew, the last of her family, had died and she had _thanked him,_ as if he deserved anything more than her wrath—

( _“Thank you for being there,” May whispered, her eyelashes thick with tears. “If it couldn’t have been me, I’m glad it was you who held him as he—“ she flinched and cut herself off. Shaking her head, she finished, “I’m sure he was glad, too.”_

_“No,” Tony’s voice was hoarse. “No. He begged, he_ begged _—“_

_“He looked up to you.” May’s smile was a sad, lonely thing, dripping of misery and defeat. “You were his hero.”_

_“I couldn’t save him.”_

_May swallowed and looked away. In the quiet stillness of the Parker residence, Tony’s voice was quiet, small, broken. It was nothing like the confident facade of the great Tony Stark, smirk ever-present for the cameras._

_May knew that this, here, was the real Tony Stark. The Tony Stark who loved her nephew, who told Peter jokes when he was upset, who bought Peter new shoes and jackets and backpacks no matter how profusely both Parkers tried to deny him, who guided Peter into the life he deserved._

_“He believed in me,” Tony’s hands were shaking, violently, “he had_ faith _in_ _me and I_ failed _him, God, I—“_

_The Tony Stark who was always trying to give parts of himself away to save the people he cared about._

_“It’s not your fault,” she shook her head, even though grief and anger burned in her throat, itching to reveal themselves in a hail of thunderous words aimed at the man she’d trusted to protect her boy. She wanted to be mad,_ God _did she want to (because if she wasn’t angry, then she would have to dwell on the despair and she didn’t think she was strong enough for that), but the look in Tony’s eyes made her stop._

_He was just as devastated as she was. He lost Peter, too, she realized._

_“I’m sorry,” Tony said, a stuttered gasp, and May closed her eyes._

_“It’s not your fault,” she repeated, more slowly and with more conviction this time. She knew he wouldn’t believe her, but she needed to say it anyway—part of her knew she was only trying to convince herself. “You... you weren’t just a hero to him, Tony Stark. You made_ him _into the hero he was, too. You inspired him to be brave and uphold the mantle of Spider-Man even when he felt powerless. He was strong because of_ you _. Because you gave him_ purpose _.”_

_“I didn’t deserve him,” Tony whispered, soft and sure._

_May didn’t say that she doubted_ either _of them deserved Peter._

_Instead, she shuffled forward and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, drawing him close. It should have felt uncomfortable, her hugging Tony Stark, but it didn’t. Because this wasn’t really Tony Stark._

_This was just Tony, someone who was grieving just as she was._

_Tony choked back a cry and let her hold him up, let her support him like he might drown without her there to keep him above water. “I miss him,” he said honestly, “so, so much.”_

_Tears stung at the backs of her eyelids. She ignored them. “I know,” she whispered hoarsely. “I know.”_

_She didn’t tell him she missed Peter, too. She didn’t have to—Tony already knew she did._ )

So. May had thanked him.

She had thanked him and then she’d fixed him a cup of tea and a horrible meatloaf that reminded him of the first time he met Peter and he’d ended up crying all over her again.

She had thanked him and then she’d pressed a framed photograph of him and Peter into his shaking hands ( _“That boy loved you so much,” she whispered, a wistful smile clinging to her lips the same way tears clung to her eyelashes, and Tony stared at the picture like he’d seen a ghost, a ghost with the most adorable brown curls and the happiest,_ happiest _eyes and an innocent grin and two fingers sticking up from behind Tony’s head in an imitation of bunny ears and – and Tony couldn't do anything but_ stare), pretending not to see the way Tony had to choke back a sob when she told him _keep it, he would have wanted you to have it._

She had thanked him and then she’d gathered him into another hug, warm and engulfing, and whispered _bring our boy back, Stark_ into his hair and he’d known, he’d _known_ , he couldn’t fail her.

He couldn’t fail _Peter_.

And yet, when the door had swung closed between them, locking shut with a solemn _click_ that had left Tony breathless and weak in the knees, mind struggling to wrap around the sheer _finality_ he’d heard in that sound, Tony had collapsed against the door and realized he was _already_ failing Peter _again_.

He was failing Peter by giving up. He was failing Peter by hiding away with nothing but himself, a seemingly endless supply of liquor, and his own goddamn fears to keep him company. He was failing Peter by burying his head in the sand and turning away from the world that _needed_ heroes, especially in a time like this.

He was failing Peter by not doing _everything he could_ to bring him back.

...Tony was _tired_ of letting Peter down.

Happy had arrived to shepherd him away like he was a lost soul desperately in need of guidance, and Tony had let himself wallow in his grief for only the hour it took to drive back upstate before he’d picked himself up, gathered the shattered pieces of himself in his bleeding hands, and called Peter’s principal with an unprecedented request.

It was time he let Peter’s death bolster him rather than cripple him. His kid was counting on him.

:::

There seemed to be no end to the noise. Everyone had _something_ to say.

It was so overwhelming that Ned couldn’t, in fact, hear a _word_ of it. He doubted anybody else could, either.

In the wake of Tony Stark’s— _he’s Iron Man, Peter, Iron Man!—_ admission, it felt as though everyone in the entire gym (and perhaps everyone in the entire country) had been sent to their feet, gasping and exclaiming excitedly to their friends and bellowing questions of disbelief.

Ned and MJ were the only ones whispering.

“Holy crap,” MJ said eloquently, having given up on her usually robotic composure after Tony Stark first took off his sunglasses. “Well _shit._ ”

“You don’t think...?” Ned trailed off.

MJ’s eyes were blown so wide open it would have been comical if Ned wasn’t sure the size of his own eyes rivalled hers. “ _Peter_?” she asked, needlessly.

They exchanged a look. They were both thinking the same thing: _Who else could it be?_

“Oh, my god,” Ned breathed. “Oh, my _god._ ”

“Peter fucking Parker,” MJ muttered. “ _Damn._ Of course Peter is the one person who can make Anthony Edward Stark admit he loves him in front of the whole world.”

MJ laughed, then, sharp and loud, drenched in torment. Ned watched, concerned, as her chuckles grew less amused and more hysterical, her eyes tearing up despite herself.

“ _Of-fucking-course._ ”

“MJ—”

“It should make me feel better,” she cut him off before he could say anything more—not that he even knew what he’d been about to say, “knowing that so many people cared about Peter. Knowing that we aren’t the only ones who miss him. Knowing that even Peter’s hero is grieving for him.”

_It should,_ MJ had said. _Should._

(‘Should’ applied to a lot of things.

Peter _should_ be alive.

Ned _should_ be able to hug his best friend after school.

Queens _should_ still have its favorite web-slinging vigilante out keeping the streets safe at night.

But none of those things were true.)

“It should make me feel better,” MJ repeated, tonelessly. The hysteria in her voice had died, but remnants of it remained in her eyes, opaque and unnoticeable.

_Ned_ noticed.

“But it doesn’t,” she said. “It just makes it all harder.”

Ned didn’t reply. He didn’t have to for MJ to know he agreed.

“Peter’s still dead,” MJ whispered.

Those three words made up the saddest sentence Ned had ever heard. He immediately wished he would never have to hear it again, but even then, even as he recoiled away from MJ as if struck, he knew he would—in his nightmares, in his daydreams, in the recesses of his mind where the voices refused to shut up.

_Peter’s still dead._

_Peter’s still dead._

_Peter’s still_ fucking _dead._

Ned wanted to scream at MJ—at _everyone—_ to _leave him alone._ Instead he swallowed down the urge, felt it go down his throat like shards of glass, and turned back to the stage. “I want to hear what else he has to say,” was all Ned said.

MJ said nothing. After all, what else was there to say?

(Nothing. There were no words at all, not for this.)

Ned drew his knees up to his chest and wished he was seven and innocent again, giggling with Peter over his new Star Wars figurines under the green-tinted lights of the glow-in-the-dark star cutouts decorating his ceiling.

(He wished the stars would shine again for him.

But the stars had long vanished, and with them, so had their light.)

All there was left for Ned to do was tune back into Iron Man’s speech and act like he cared at all about the reporters and their burning questions, when all he wanted to do was take Tony Stark aside and demand, _Is it true? Are you going to bring them all back? Are you going to bring_ Peter _back?_

For a moment, Ned could have sworn Mr. Stark’s eyes locked with his, and his breath caught in his throat. He wondered if, even from all the way over there on the stage, the scientist could hear his thoughts.

Could hear his _prayers._

Then Mr. Stark flinched minutely and took a step back, hurriedly averting his eyes, and Ned exhaled heavily.

_Come on, Mr. Stark,_ he thought, pleaded, begged, _you’ve always been Peter’s favorite. You’ve been saving him from day one, from even before you knew who he was. You rescued him at the Stark Expo, you rescued him constantly when he was getting himself into world after world of trouble as Spider-Man _—_ you rescued him all the time._

_Be his hero again. Please. Just save him one more time._

Mr. Stark cleared his throat up on the stage, shook off whatever stupor had seized him, and quickly pointed at another reporter.

_Please._

“Josh Anderson, CNN News. Mr. Stark, you claim that you and the Avengers will give us back the people we’ve lost. But what about right now? What do you plan to do to help those that remain, those who’ve lost their families, their jobs, their financial security, their motivation? What will you do for everyone who is struggling to come to terms with the Decimation?”

_Please._

“Thank you, Josh from CNN News, that’s an _excellent_ question,” Stark responded. The raw anguish had been pushed back, replaced by the steely fierceness Ned had always associated with the Great Tony Stark. Yet even still, there remained traces of the other Tony in the newly-appeared smattering of salt and pepper in his hair, in the way he rocked unsteadily back and forth on his heels, and in the haunted look in his eyes.

It was barely there, but it still existed.

“To answer your concerns, Pepper Potts and I, on behalf of Stark Industries, wish to reassure you all that you are not alone.” There was a softness to Tony’s voice, a certain wrecked quality that made Ned think it was _Tony_ who needed to be told he was not alone. “We are here to help. To prove this, we’d first like to offer a solution for those who are suffering financially due to the Decimation.”

_Please._

“Thus, as the Avengers continue to fight for all of your loved ones, it is with great pride and joy that I announce to you all the inauguration of the _Peter Parker Foundation_ , after – after my kid.” Tony had said _pride_ , he had said _joy_ , but though there was indeed a modicum of relief in his expression, it was greatly outweighed by the sheer _heartbreak_.

_Please._

The breath whooshed out of Ned in a speedy exhale. Beside him, MJ really did drop her book this time.

“ _Whoa_ ,” Ned mumbled quietly. Three weeks ago, he would have laughed excitedly, cheered, and hugged Peter as he confidently proclaimed this to be the greatest day of his life.

(Three weeks ago, Peter had been alive.)

“'Whoa’ is right,” MJ agreed, just as dully. She looked surprised, but not amazed. “That’s— _wow_. Peter… Peter would have been beyond thrilled.”

And MJ was right. Peter would have been _ecstatic._ He would have stared at Mr. Stark in awe and cried, probably, upon realizing just how important he was to a man he’d looked up to his entire life.

Ned couldn’t find it in himself to be anywhere near ‘ecstatic.’

Meanwhile, all around him, there were whispers everywhere. Of course there were; Peter’s classmates hadn’t even believed that Peter had been an intern at Stark Industries, much less Tony Stark’s ‘kid’, apparently.

If Ned possessed the energy to feel anything but overwhelming and all-encompassing devastation, he would have probably been delighted to finally have it proven that Peter really _had_ known Iron Man.

But as it were, he couldn’t even bring himself to seek out Flash in the audience and revel in the doubtlessly shocked, deer-caught-in-headlights look that he could vaguely imagine on Flash’s face.

What did it matter that they’d finally vindicated themselves when Peter wasn’t here to celebrate with?

Below on the stage, seemingly unaware of (or, more likely, completely aware of but indifferent to) the chain reaction he had set off, Tony continued to elaborate on how the Peter Parker Foundation would be aimed at helping any and all people with everything from providing their kids with an education to paying for funeral costs. He explained it all with an ease that spoke of his experience, but a stiltedness that betrayed his discomfort.

Ned didn’t care. He tried to listen, tried to pay attention, but he couldn’t seem to focus on anything but the roaring in his ears, the stampede in his chest, the shrieking in his skull, the rattle of his bones.

He couldn’t hear a word Tony said.

:::

Flash was not afraid to admit that he admired Iron Man. In fact, he  _had_  admired Iron Man since the hero first revealed himself in a dramatic moment worthy only of Tony Stark.

He admired Tony Stark, too.

But that didn’t mean he was blind to the genius’s faults—because he _wasn’t_. He knew who the Avenger was; he knew that, for all his greatness, one of Tony Stark’s most prominent flaws was that he was utterly incapable of processing his own emotions.

Hell, the entire _nation_ knew that. Tony Stark’s emotional shortcomings had been documented since before Flash had even really known who Tony Stark was besides the fact that he shared the name of Stark Industries.

And yet.

_And yet…_

Flash found himself gawking at Tony Stark, whose presence was currently gracing their humble school. He didn’t think even the announcement that the billionaire owner of Stark Industries was Iron Man had shocked him this much.

_...It is with great pride and joy that I announce to you all the inauguration of the Peter Parker Foundation._

_...with great pride and joy that I announce to you all the inauguration of the Peter Parker Foundation._

_...and joy that I announce to you all the inauguration of the Peter Parker Foundation._

_...I announce to you all the inauguration of the Peter Parker Foundation._

_...inauguration of the Peter Parker foundation._

_...the Peter Parker foundation._

_...Peter Parker foundation._

_...Parker._

Holy _shit_.

Parker. Peter _fucking_ Parker.

Flash whimpered. (He would never admit it to anyone else, but yes, he _whimpered_.) He couldn’t believe he’d been bullying _Iron Man’s kid._

He wasn’t given the chance to wallow in his self-pity, however, because Tony quickly continued to speak, changing the subject to all the other ways he and Stark Industries planned to help the world heal.

But even as he spoke of rebuilding efforts and pardons for the previously-Rogue Avengers and alliances between governments, Flash could tell that everyone remained hooked only on the news that Tony Stark had a kid.

And Flash looked at Mr. Stark, and he saw a sadness in his smile—the same sadness he saw every morning when his mother came into his room just to make sure he was still there and whole—that made Flash’s chest tighten.

_Peter Parker_ did that. Parker put that look on _Iron Man’s_ face.

It was all too clear that Mr. Stark genuinely  _cared_  about Flash’s classmate. _Peter must be something,_ Flash mused, _to make Tony fucking Stark, genius, billionaire, philanthropist, give a damn._

And what did it say about Flash, then, if he was capable of hurting someone so undeniably good that even Mr. Stark could see it?

:::

Fifteen minutes later, the reporters were still unsatisfied, each of them putting their hands up over and over again, clamoring for his attention even if they’d already had their chance to ask a question just moments before.

Tony was exhausted.

_All they see you as is ‘Tony Stark’s kid’,_ Tony thought regretfully. _That’s my fault. You’re... you’re – so much more._

_You’re everything, Pete._

“That’s _enough_ ,” Tony snapped, corralling his misery back into its cage. He was sick of standing here and regaling the world with stories of how great Peter had been when none of these people had even known his kid. Peter was beyond all of them—none of them, especially not him, deserved Peter Parker (or Spider-Man).

Peter Parker and Spider-Man were one and the same, but Tony knew better than anyone that Peter didn’t see it that way. Peter had been so unaware of his value that Tony found it _inconceivable_.

How was it that the _best_ person he knew hadn’t even been able to see his own worth?

( _“I don’t get it,” Tony said, frustrated. “You could knock your bully out in a single punch. Why don’t you?”_

_“Because I’m Peter Parker!” Peter answered heatedly. “Because when I’m at school, I’m not Spider-Man. I can’t fight back because I’m supposed to be a weak nobody.”_

_“You are_ not _a nobody. Don’t you dare say that about yourself again,” Tony hissed. His gut churned to hear Peter put himself so down. “Suit or no suit, you’re still Spider-Man.”_

_Peter was_ so good _. Why couldn’t he_ accept _that?_

_But Peter just shook his head stubbornly, a hint of sadness in his gaze. “No, I’m not. Spider-Man is strong, brave, invincible. I’m nowhere near any of that. When I put on that mask..._ _I’m a different person. The thing is, Mr_ _. Stark, Spider-Man possesses a greatness Peter Parker cannot even hope to touch.”_

_Tony wanted to throw up. God, his kid. His precious, precious kid who he loved so much. He wished he could just hold Peter tight and make Peter see himself the way Tony saw him:_

_Selfless, kind, intelligent. Powerful beyond measure yet compassionate to the extreme._

_Perfect._ )

( _“Holy crap,” Tony breathed, staring wide-eyed at the finished equation scribbled on his whiteboard. He knew without a doubt that he hadn’t yet had a chance to fix that equation._

_He also knew who that handwriting belonged to._

_He spun around in his chair and pointed accusingly at Peter. “Peter Parker, you are a_ genius _,” he praised, grinning widely when the boy’s head jerked upwards and Peter was left blinking at him, confused._

_“What – what did I d–do?” Peter stammered._

_Tony’s grin broadened. “You solved my equation is what you did, you little prodigy,” he teased. “Honestly, Pete, I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure that out for days now, and you’ve been here for, what, two hours maybe? That formula is_ way _beyond high school maths.”_

_Peter’s cheeks pinked. It was adorable—Tony almost cooed at the sight. He didn’t, of course—he wasn’t a blubbering toddler or a gushing grandmother—but it was a tempting urge. “I – I don’t... I don’t know,”—Peter was fumbling to find words, looking anywhere but at Tony—“I was just playing around with the numbers and I thought I recognized something. I’m – sorry...?”_

_Tony rolled his eyes. “Don’t apologize, I’m complimenting you. You did good, Pete.” His eyes twinkled proudly. “You’ve been holding out on me, haven’t you, you little rascal?”_

_“That – that’s not...” Peter shook his head, and the twin roses on his face abruptly faded as his expression morphed from embarrassed to disheartened. “You’re wrong, Mr. Stark. I’m not that smart.”_

_Tony frowned immediately. If it were anyone else, he would have dismissed the words as teenage angst, but there was something about the look on Peter’s face that didn’t sit right with him._

_“No, you’re not,” Tony agreed, and watched as Peter flinched visibly and blinked his eyes rapidly like he was trying not to cry. A little smile crept up Tony’s face as he finished, more sincerely than he’d intended, “You’re smarter.”_

_Peter’s eyes widened again. This time, the tears that formed were less dejected and more grateful._

_Still, his stubbornness persisted. “But Mr. Stark, I—”_

_“No buts, Pete,” Tony said gently. “You’re a genius, kid. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. You – God, Pete, you’re smarter than I could have ever hoped to be at your age. And I know you’ll be_ even smarter _when you grow older.”_

_Peter sniffled and looked away, less out of shyness and more out of disbelief. Tony hated that disbelief._

_Peter should know how amazing he was._

_“And you know what?” Tony carried on. “I can’t wait until you surpass everyone else in the field, including me. I just know you’ll impress them all—you’ve already impressed me.”_

_“You’re – you’re lying,” Peter protested, but his voice was weak. Peter wanted nothing more than to be able to believe Tony was telling the truth, but how could he? He was just a nerdy kid from Queens. “That has to be an exaggeration, or—”_

_“It’s not,” Tony said firmly, so sure and full of conviction that Peter faltered. “I would never lie to you, not about this. Peter, I’m so proud of you.”_

_Peter brought his wrists to his eyes and wiped hastily, turning bodily away from Tony._

_Tony pretended he couldn’t see Peter break down in the corner of his lab. He pretended it didn’t break his heart to think that Peter genuinely believed himself to be worth so much less than what he was_ really _worth._ )

( _“Well, don’t you look down today,” Tony joked when Peter walked into his lab like someone had killed his puppy._

_Except Peter didn’t laugh. He smiled pathetically, an obvious farce that even a toddler would be able to see through, but he didn’t laugh._

_“Hey,” Tony frowned. “What happened? Who do I need to beat up?”_

_Peter rolled his eyes. “No one,” he muttered, the frown never leaving his face._

_“Peter,” Tony sighed, “seriously. I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me what’s wrong. So please, tell me. I want to help you.”_

_Peter shook his head. The phony smile on his face grew wider, as if that would distract Tony from noticing the lack of luster behind it. “It’s really nothing,” he lied. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Stark.”_

_Tony worried. He let it go, and he didn’t prod any further, but that didn’t stop him from worrying._

_He kept a close eye on Peter as Peter manouvered around the lab as if he belonged there, bringing a smile to Tony’s lips for a fleeting moment before he remembered something was_ wrong _._

_All throughout the hours Peter spent working in the lab, Tony watched him, waiting for him to slip up and give Tony something to work with._

_But Peter never did._ _He looked at Tony over his shoulder once every few minutes, chewing his lip intently, but he didn’t say a word._

_In the end, Tony was forced to let Peter go back home, eyes still dull and joy still muted. Usually, Peter would skip out of the lab with a bounce in his step, not even trying to hide how happy he was, but this time, Tony’s brows knitted when he saw how Peter seemed to be hunching in on himself as he walked, his legs practically dragging behind him._

_It only reinforced the thought in Tony’s mind: Peter was upset._

_Tony stressed over the question of what exactly Peter was unhappy about for hours until he finally received a text from May, instantly cluing him in on the situation._

**_Aunt Hottie:_ ** _Hey, Tony. I need a favor._

**_Aunt Hottie:_ ** _I’m sorry to ask you this, but Midtown offers an out-of-states field trip to its students every year. Peter was really looking forward to go and have some fun with his friends, but I’m not sure that’s possible anymore._

**_Aunt Hottie:_ ** _I really wish I could let Peter go, but it’s just that the trip is so expensive and we’ve been struggling lately._

**_Aunt Hottie:_ ** _You know I hate to accept charity, but I was wondering if you could help us out, just this once. I know it would make Peter’s day._

_Tony stared at his phone screen, his chest stuttering in his ribcage for a moment. His eyes skipped over May’s text messages_ _a second time,_ _and he knew how to read between the lines—May didn’t just want Peter to enjoy a trip with his friends_ _; she_ _wanted him to enjoy himself and just be a_ _teenager for once, a_ kid  _instead of a hero shouldering the weight of the world_ _._

_“Oh,_ kid _,” Tony whispered to himself, feeling his heart shatter. God, Peter was too fucking selfless._

_Tony closed his eyes. “Peter, goddamnit, I’m a billionaire,” he_ _sighed, thinking of all the times Peter had glanced uncertainly at him during their lab session_ _. “And funding your field trip is probably the best and most worthwhile thing I could possibly spend my money on."_

_Didn’t Peter know_ _that_ _Tony would bend over backwards to make him happy?_

_He shook his head and started to type out his response, fingers flying furiously across the keyboard. If he focused on the menial task hard enough, he could even ignore the few tears that had gathered in his eyes._ _It physically hurt to know that Peter was too afraid to accept his help even when Tony was so desperate to give it to him._

**_Helicopter Mentor:_ ** _Of course I’ll pay for Peter’s trip, May. You don’t even have to ask._

**_Helicopter Mentor:_ ** _You know I’m more than happy to lend you guys a hand anytime. And trust me, it’s not charity._ _I don’t pity you. I know you want to provide for Peter, but I have the money, and Peter’s worth it._

**_Helicopter Mentor:_ ** _Why didn’t Peter ask me when he was over at the lab?_

_He didn’t have to wait long for a reply._

**_Aunt Hottie:_ ** _Thank you, Tony._

**_Aunt Hottie:_ ** _I know_ _it’s not a handout,_ _Tony, but can you blame me for being proud?_

**_Aunt Hottie:_ ** _Y_ _ou_ _and I both_ _know Peter. He_ _feels_ _bad. He doesn’t want to be a burden, or feel like he’s using you for your money._

_Tony’s frown deepened. He rushed to deny Peter’s assumptions, the tears finally spilling over._

**_Helicopter Mentor:_ ** _Peter could_ _NEVER_ _be a burden._

**_Helicopter Mentor:_ ** _And I know he wouldn’t deliberately use me, May. Peter’s a good kid. He deserves the world._

_And Tony had_ every _intention of giving Peter exactly that._ )

No, these people had no idea who his kid was.

They didn’t know anything about Peter. They didn’t know that Peter had laughed at every little thing, heart full and happy and unburdened by hatred. They didn’t know that Peter used to constantly wow Tony with his brain—Peter could catch one glimpse of a complex problem that confused even Tony and immediately spit out a thousand and one ideas of how to solve it. They didn’t know Peter had a nervous tick; whenever he was self-conscious or flustered or anxious, he wouldn’t be able to help but stammer out every second word. They didn’t know Peter had a moral compass stronger than Captain America; they didn’t know Peter would have gladly risked his own life if it meant saving even one other person.

They didn’t know that Peter’s favorite color had been red, after the Iron Man suit, or that Peter had made Tony cry when he’d admitted that his favorite hero was the man behind the mask, Tony Stark. They didn’t know Peter had defended Star Wars to the very end. They didn’t know Peter had cried every time they watched Coco, even though he knew the movie by heart by now. They didn’t know Peter had been so well-versed in gamma radiation and nuclear physics that even Bruce Banner would have been stunned.

They didn’t know that Peter’s favorite ice cream flavor had been Hunka Hulka Burning Fudge, but that he had always eaten Stark Raving Hazelnuts anyway to make Tony feel better. They didn’t know that Peter used to love eating pancakes with gummy bears mixed into the batter—much to Tony’s unending disgust. They didn’t know that Peter would turn into a squealing seven-year-old at the slightest mention of Thor, God of Thunder (and no, Tony was not jealous, thank you very much).

They didn’t know Peter had loved his friends dearly. They didn’t know that Peter would have never bailed on even a simple movie night with Ned, even if it was Tony Stark himself asking him to. They didn’t know that Peter had catalogued all of MJ’s favorite genres and authors just so he could surprise her with a new book every so often and make her smile. They didn’t know that Peter would have moved heaven and earth for Ned and MJ.

They didn’t know that Peter had swung his way into Tony’s heart and refused to leave. They didn’t know that Peter’s innocence and childish glee had effortlessly gotten Tony wrapped around his finger. They didn’t know that Peter had showed up on Tony’s doorstep with a sheepish grin and a clumsily-wrapped present on Father’s Day (or that, for the first time in his entire life, Tony had finally experienced a Father’s Day he could look back at with a smile). They didn’t know that Peter had warmed up the cold rooms of Stark Tower without even trying. They didn’t know that the first time Peter had stumbled upon Tony panting on the floor, in the throes of a panic attack, Peter hadn’t shied away; Peter had stayed by Tony’s side unhesitatingly, murmuring words of love and comfort to the wounded man. They didn’t know that Peter had patched up Tony’s heart and trust after Steve Rogers had broken both with his betrayal.

They didn’t know that Peter’s first priority had always been his aunt—they didn’t know that Peter was always thinking up new ways to earn money just so he could ease the financial strain May struggled with. They didn’t know that Peter gave before he took. They didn’t know that Peter used to cry himself to sleep at night imagining all the people he hadn’t been able to save—and all the people he hadn’t even known needed saving. They didn’t know that Peter had always put everyone else before himself.

They didn’t know that Peter had made Tony’s life so much better, or that Tony was flailing without him now. They didn’t know that the Peter-shaped hole in the universe had made the lights in Tony’s life go out.

They didn’t know that Tony felt so incomplete, so broken and empty, without Peter. They didn’t know that Tony would still miss Peter long after the world had forgotten all about Spider-Man.

They didn’t know that Tony had loved, and would always love, Peter as if he were his own son.

They didn’t know that in the seventeen years he’d been alive, Peter had touched the hearts of so many—Tony, May, Ned, MJ, even Happy and Pepper and Rhodey.

They didn’t know _shit_ about Peter Parker.

“ _That’s enough_ ,” Tony echoed his earlier words, loud enough to punch into the ears of everyone present. The racket slowly died down. Tony breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll be taking only one more question.”

Instantly the hands were back up, desperation rushing through the reporters.

Tony scanned the group slowly, and his eyes subconsciously hooked on one of the younger reporters, a man with unkempt brown hair and an eagerness that had already left his more senior peers. He was wearing a checkered shirt and a sweater that reminded Tony of Peter more than he’d like to admit.

Tony’s throat dried.

_Pete_.

Tony couldn’t escape him. (He didn’t want to. He’d give away all of his fortune and fame if it meant getting Peter back.)

“You, with the red sweater”— _Peter preferred blue_ —“and square glasses.” He couldn’t help himself. He’d always been fantastic at self-sabotage.

The man blanched. It was easy to see that he hadn’t expected to be chosen—Tony could figure why: he was on the young side, and obviously inexperienced.

_But so was Peter,_ Tony thought, _and he was smarter than even the best and most accomplished of my highest-paid scientists._

Tony watched as the young reporter recovered his composure admirably, a practiced smile falling onto his lips as he asked, much more smoothly and charmingly than Peter would have, “James Hall from The Post, sir. Who was Peter Parker to you? What exactly do you mean when you say he was your _kid_?”

James Hall was not Peter. Peter was awkward and a stammering mess and endearingly terrible at social situations. James Hall, on the other hand, was mustering a confidence that Peter would never have been able to fake.

It brought him both unexplainable relief and despair to recognize that this reporter, who resembled Peter only in his brown hair (Tony had loved Peter’s hair, had loved running his hand through those untamable curls) and nerdy clothes, was completely different in the ways that mattered (it mattered because Tony had adored Peter’s shy stammer more than Peter had ever known).

Tony couldn’t see Peter in Hall anymore. His kid was gone.

But the reporter’s question nevertheless made Tony’s breath still in his lungs in a way only Peter’s questions ever had before— _Why won’t you let me fight with you? Why did you give me back the suit if you don’t want me to be a hero? Why don’t you care?_

(He cared. God, he cared too much.)

_He was my son,_ were the words that impulsively formed on his tongue, begging to be let out. The need to shout the claim from the rooftops burned bright inside him.

He had already opened his mouth, ready to let those four words chase out of his chest, when he realized that they were a lie.

Peter _hadn’t_ been his son. In fact, May—who’d raised and loved Peter for far longer than Tony had even known him, who had more of a claim to Peter than Tony _ever_ would, who’d lost _everything_ in Peter—was probably watching this impromptu ‘press conference’ right now from the safety of the Parker apartment.

Tony had entertained the idea that Peter was his for so long that he’d almost had himself convinced of the idea. Ever since Toomes, and ever since Tony had taken a shine to Peter and his incredible mind, Tony had discovered it was impossible to keep Peter out. As the weeks and months had flown by, he had caught himself staring at Peter more and more often, trailing his eyes over Peter’s curly brown hair and doe brown eyes and cheeky smile and thinking, _fuck, I wish he was my son._

But Peter had never been his.

“He – he was my intern,” Tony finally answered, unable to fight off the wobble in his voice, the falter in his words, the shudder in his breath. “Peter was the youngest intern Stark Industries has ever had. Despite his youth, however, his application immediately stood out to us—his ideas were _brilliant_ , full of the kind of revolutionary genius that evades men twice his age. It seemed like the only option available to us was to make an exception for him. So we did, and Peter continued to prove himself, time and again, until eventually I took him on as my personal intern.”

The cover story dripped from his lips like honey. Tony had never wanted to lie about Peter, but he knew Peter would never have agreed to revealing his identity so soon.

But there was one truth he _could_ admit to. “Over time, I saw him as less of an employee and more of a son. I mean, who could blame me? Peter was undoubtedly one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, and believe me, I’ve met a lot of smart people. Hell, I’ve met _me_. Plus, I’m sure everyone here is more than well aware of my eccentric nature—pseudo-adopting a teenager with an ingenuity to put my own to shame is far from the weirdest thing the press has reported me doing.”

It was the most honest he’d ever remembered being.

He paused. “So when I call him ‘my kid,’ it’s not because he’s biologically mine. We’re not related in any way—though I’m not ashamed to admit I wish we were. Peter was, well – I guess you could liken him to a leech who stuck to me and refused to let go, though I promise you he’d detest the comparison.”

He grinned, mischievously, but the amused laughs that ran through the audience did nothing but make him all the more aware of the one laugh he _couldn’t_ hear.

_I wish I hadn’t told you off for being so loud so often, because right now there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to hear that laugh just one more time._

God, he missed Peter.

:::

After he’d answered his last question, Mr. Stark walked away from the audience to the sound of their continued yells. Principal Morita had barely returned to the stage to dismiss all of the students before Ned was leaping off his seat and rushing down the aisle.

“Ned!” MJ’s voice halted him in his tracks, her fingers wrapping around his arm. “Where are you going?”

“He knew Peter was dead,” Ned hissed. “He _knew_ , but still he left us _hanging_ for weeks on end, forced to accept the fact that Peter’s gone and we never even got to say _goodbye._ We didn’t even know if Peter had – had vanished in the Decimation or if something else had killed him. _We didn’t know._ ”

“Ned…” MJ sounded devastated.

“And he just left us in the dark, MJ. He has the nerve to tell the whole world about Peter Parker before telling _us,_ his _friends._ ” Ned shook his head furiously, tears falling onto his t-shirt, distorting the words _I Make Horrible Science Puns But Only Periodically_ even more than he already had by crumpling the fabric in his fists, desperate to ground himself (the shirt had been Peter's, dubbed one of his favorite 'comfort shirts' thanks to its large size; Aunt May had given it to Ned four days after the Decimation when she’d found him curled into a ball on the floor of Peter’s bedroom). “Didn’t we deserve to know? Didn’t we have _the right_ to know?”

“Ned, _please._ ” MJ’s voice quaked, her chest convulsing. She stared at him with wide, skittish eyes like she was afraid he was in danger of exploding at any moment. “St– _stop_.”

Ned didn’t stop. “I’ve been asking myself what happened to Peter for three weeks. _Three weeks._ I couldn’t shake the thought that maybe he didn’t fade in the Decimation. Maybe he was killed in battle—by _Thanos,_ apparently. I kept remembering that moment on the bus when Peter asked me to cause a distraction and the first thing that popped into my mind was _we’re all going to die._ And everyday, I wonder, why did I have to say that? Why did the last thing Peter heard me say have to be _that_?”

Ned was _inconsolable._

MJ, listening to Ned’s outpouring of grief and anger and guilt, felt much the same way. It was as if Ned’s words had collapsed her chest in on her heart, crushing her.

She couldn’t _breathe._ She opened her mouth, not knowing if it was to agree with him or reassure him or beg him to _shut up shut up please shut up,_ but no words escaped her.

Ned shook his head, tore away from MJ, and rushed after the disappearing form of Tony Stark. He was vaguely aware of her pinching herself out of her stupor and calling after him, but he ignored her, his focus tunneling in on Mr. Stark.

He found the Avenger marching down the hallways in front of the auditorium, flanked by two large, imposing men.

Ned ground his teeth together. For a split-second, he saw Peter dance into his vision, eyes pleading and teary, begging him to leave Mr. Stark alone. Begging him to _see_ that Mr. Stark was suffering, too.

And Ned knew. Ned _knew_ Mr. Stark was suffering—there was no denying that, not when he had been able to see all the evidence of it just minutes before on the stage.

But Ned had also been suffering. He’d been _miserable_ for every second of the last three weeks.

( _“Do you still hear him?” MJ whispered one afternoon, when they were sitting in silence in the library, side-by-side but separate._

_Ned felt like drowning._

_“Because I_ _– I do,” she answered herself a second later. “I can’t help it. He’s everywhere. He’s here now.”_

_Ned knew what that felt like._

_“Y–yeah,” Ned whispered. “So do I. I hear him all the time.”_ )

“Stark!” he shouted. The students who were lingering in the hall started, turning to him with wide, horrified eyes, as if scandalized by his impertinent use of Iron Man’s last name. The old Ned would have been just as appalled by his abject disrespect towards one of his childhood heroes, but that Ned had died with Peter.

The two men guarding Tony whirled around in a flash, a glare on one of them and a tired look on the other. The angry one immediately lifted a hand to the bulge in his suit jacket, chest shoving forward like he wanted to lash out and barrel towards a high school student.

Ned wouldn’t have cared. Peter had been his best friend, and now he was gone.

Nothing else seemed to matter.

But the other man faltered, and lifted a hand to stop his colleague. Ned recognized him as Happy, who had picked Peter up after school everyday without fail, who used to buy Peter and Ned ice cream if he saw them celebrating their test results, who’d honked rudely at Flash and then ‘gently’ nudged the bully with his car when he overheard Flash mocking Peter.

“Ted,” Happy said.

Ned didn’t care about that, either. Peter wasn’t here to roll his eyes at Happy and pout, _Happy, I know you know his name is actually Ned. You’re not fooling anyone._

Ned nodded at Happy, unable to so much as smile. “Mr. Happy,” he greeted, and suppressed a flinch when he couldn’t help but remember all the times he and Peter had laughed at Happy’s obvious distaste for his nickname.

Who would he laugh over stupid things with now?

“I need to speak with Mr. Stark,” Ned insisted.

Before Happy could protest, Tony pushed forward and offered Ned a single nod that spoke a thousand words. His sunglasses were still off his face, and Ned could see the entire array of emotions that crossed his eyes.

“Well, I’m right here,” Tony said, too numbly to be the man who’d played Mario Kart with Peter at 1 A.M., thrilling Peter so much he’d jabbered endlessly about it to Ned the next day. “Speak away.”

_Speak away._

There were so many things Ned wanted to say.

_Why didn’t you tell me?_

_Why did you let me wonder what had happened to Peter for so long?_

_Did you know that the last thing I ever said to him was “we’re all going to die”?_

_Why didn’t you save him?_

_You were supposed to save him._

But all of the words died in his throat.

Instead, when he opened his mouth, what came out was a plea—“Promise me you’re going to bring my best friend back.”

Tony didn’t blink. He didn’t falter, he didn’t flinch, he didn’t hesitate. “I’m going to bring all of them back.”

It should have reassured Ned.

But he’d been through too many days without Peter to take even Iron Man himself at his word. He didn’t trust many things anymore.

“Don’t you _dare_ lie to me,” Ned forced out through gritted teeth. “Not about this.” _Not about Peter._

This time, Tony did flinch. “Like I said,” he said finally, “I’ll do _whatever_ it takes. I – I _swear_.” Tony tore his eyes away and cursed, rubbing his face tiredly, his breath tripping over itself. “I’m bringing Peter home if it’s the _last_ thing I do.”

Ned had no idea what to say to that.

Luckily, MJ responded for him, having caught up to him by now, “You better.” She paused. “Though try to make it out alive. Peter will have both our heads if he knew we let you sacrifice yourself for him.”

“I’d do it, you know,” Tony interjected, half-desperate and half-determined. “If it comes to it. Peter – Peter’s life is worth more than mine.”

MJ gave him a long, searching look. “I know,” she said at last. “But I meant what I said. Peter would want to come home to you, too.”

This time, it was MJ who left Tony speechless instead of the other way around. He stared at her like he didn’t quite know what to do with that information.

“That’s – I – he—“

“She’s right,” Ned said quietly when it was clear Tony was too shaken to speak coherently. “You have to stay alive. For Peter.”

Their gazes met again. In Tony’s eyes, Ned saw a plea, an apology, a denial. He saw _please I miss Peter too_ and _I want him back_ and _I’m sorry_ and _Peter deserves better than me_ and _so long as Peter comes home at all, I don’t care what I have to do_ and _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry._

For the first time, Ned felt like he could empathize with someone like Tony Stark, so seemingly untouchable from a distance. He glanced sidelong at MJ, and imagined that she might be thinking the same thing, if only she let herself feel these days.

(Ned didn’t get it. He was completely incapable of even _trying_ to hide away from his grief—he felt Peter and Peter’s absence wherever he went, like a second skin he _could not_ shed—but MJ seemed to be the opposite. Whereas he was stuck suffocating in his sadness, unable to leave, she had mostly detached herself from it, able to survive only because she had pushed it all away.

Ned thought he would die if he let Peter go. Even now, he didn’t want to.

Peter had been his best friend. That would never change.)

Then Tony swallowed and shoved his sunglasses back on, fingers shaking around the frame, and Ned was left to face his grief alone once more.

:::

It took Tony’s bodyguards over twenty minutes to fight off the stragglers and carve Tony a path to the carpark through the crowd. When Tony finally reached his car, Happy held open the back door for him, and then, instead of climbing into the passenger seat, slid in after Tony while Jim started the car.

Happy waited until they were already in motion, the sound of the engine constant and reassuring, to speak up: “Thank you.”

Tony froze. He could barely hear Happy, quiet as the bodyguard was being, over the vibrations of the car, but there was no mistaking Happy’s words.

“Hap,” his voice cracked, “don’t – don’t thank me. Please. I didn’t—”

“ _Thank you,_ ” Happy repeated. “You know we don’t blame you, Tony. And – it’s nice to finally see Peter get the recognition he deserves as himself, too, not just as _Spider-Man_.”

(Spider-Man was great, yes, but Peter Parker was braver, stronger, _better_ —

Even if he couldn’t be heralded for it right now, Peter Parker was the _real_ hero.)

Tony didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t done what he did to be thanked. He’d just... he’d just wanted to _celebrate_ Peter. To  _honor his kid._

Happy exhaled slowly. “It doesn’t make things better, not by a long shot. It doesn’t bring Peter back. But... it’s easier, somehow, knowing we’re not the only ones who see that kid for his true potential anymore. Peter deserved to know he was appreciated. I regret not telling him that more often. I wonder if he even knew – if he knew I cared.”

Tony’s eyes burned. God, but he hadn’t even remembered that Happy had loved Peter, too—that, sometimes, when Happy was so exhausted of the other aspects of his job, it was only Peter’s text messages and long rambling voicemails that could get him to smile.

And he hadn’t even realized. He’d been so consumed by his own grief that he hadn’t been able to see that Happy had been missing Peter, too; that even though he was a terrible substitute for Peter and all his goodness, Happy had needed him.

Happy had needed him to admit to how much he cared about Peter, too, and Tony hadn’t been able to get his head out of his ass long enough to see that.

_Christ, how selfish have I been that I’ve holed myself up in my room, as if I’m the only one allowed to grieve Peter? I don’t own exclusive rights to his absence._

_There are others whose lives have been irreparably damaged by Peter’s loss, too. Just take a look at Happy, you asshole. He never admitted it to Pete’s face, but you saw the change in him: you saw the way he smiled whenever the hour-hand on a clock drew nearer and nearer to 3:00 P.M. on a weekday; you saw him listen to all of Peter’s voicemails eagerly even though he’d complain about it to the kid’s face; you know he memorized all of the kid’s favorite haunts and hobbies._

When Tony looked at Happy, he could easily see the new frown lines and worry wrinkles marking Happy’s face and wondered how he could have been so blind to have missed it before. Happy wasn’t crying—Tony didn’t think Happy had shed a single tear since that first day Tony had come back without the Spider-Kid in tow, and he’d been forced to admit that he’d (they’d) lost Peter Parker—but he might as well have been, for all the pain Tony could see in his eyes.

And Happy wasn’t the only other one who’d known Peter the same way he had: as the kid worth giving it all up for.

_What about Peter’s friends? They didn’t look fine back at the school. They’re grieving for him, too. And what about May?_

_What about_ May _, Stark?_

Tony knew he’d been selfish for too long. He’d thought that he was the only one who felt like Peter’s death had crushed the heart in his chest and transformed his universe irreversibly, but he knew now that he’d been wrong.

He stared at Happy, at this man who’d been his friend and who’d had his back for so long, and shivered at the gratitude reflected in his eyes. Tony didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve Happy looking at him like he’d done something good, when in reality all he’d done was what he _should’ve_ done when he first landed.

Suddenly, a bone-deep weariness seeped into Tony. He needed to be better. He needed to see Peter again.

He’d told the world that he’d fight to the end to right Thanos’s wrongs. And he would. He’d fight harder than he ever had, because this time, it was Peter’s life at stake.

This time, he had so much on the line.

( _“You need to get up, Tony,” Pepper whispered into the silence of their bedroom one night. Even their relationship had been stained by Thanos’s deeds. “You need to get better.”_

_The first time she’d begged him to stand, to rise again, he’d snapped at her. This time, he just looked at her, sad and weary, and asked searchingly, “How?”_

_Pepper flinched. “Call – call him, please. You don’t have to forgive him, but... the world needs the Avengers right now. And I need my fiancé. Please.”_

_“What can the Avengers do, Pep?” Tony was drained. “It’s already done. Thanos won, we lost. Half the universe is gone. There’s nothing anyone, even us so-called superheroes, can do now.”_

_“You can try,” she pleaded. “You can get back up on your feet and_ try _.”_

_Tony’s open, vulnerable gaze shuttered. “I thought you hated that I was Iron Man. You’ve never wanted me to risk my life out there.”_

_“And I still don’t want you to now,” she admitted. “But I know who you_ are _, Tony. And I know... I_ know _that this—staying still, doing nothing—is killing you more than being Iron Man ever did. So get up, Tony. Bring Peter – bring him back. And come_ home _to me,_ please _.”_

_“I don’t know if I can,” Tony said weakly. “I’m not the Iron Man you know anymore. The fight with Thanos changed me. I used to be fearless, but now...”_

_“No,” Pepper shook her head resolutely, defiantly. “You weren’t fearless, Tony. You were reckless—there’s a difference.”_

_“Pep—”_

_“You dove headfirst into anything that would get you in trouble. You never thought of the consequences. You just... took risks. You lived like you didn’t have a care in the world.”_

_“And now?”_

_“And now you have more to lose,” Pepper said it like it was a fact, like it couldn’t be anything but the truth. Her words hit Tony harder than any of Thanos’s attacks had. “You can’t afford to be reckless anymore. If you’re more afraid nowadays, it’s because you care.”_

_Pepper molded her hand against his cheek, eyes soft and loving, but honest, too. “And it’s exactly because you have more to lose now that you’ll win.”_

_“I love you,” Tony choked out. “I love you. I love you.”_

_A sad smile tugged on her lips. “I love you, too. I believe in you.”_ )

Tony’s entire perspective had been shifted by Peter. Before he met Peter, he used to switch between categorizing the parts of his life as “Before and After Pepper” and “Before and After Iron Man.”

Now all he saw was “Before and After Peter.”

Pepper had been right. He had more to lose now. He had more to fight for, too.

Tony nodded at Happy, didn’t tell him _You’re welcome,_ and knocked on the partition separating the front of the car from the back.

A second later, the divider rolled down. “Yes, Boss?” Jim inquired.

Tony smiled a smile he didn’t feel. “Change of plans, Jim,” he announced. “Take us to May Parker’s apartment, please.”

Jim nodded obediently, already pulling up the address from FRIDAY’s database.

The partition went back up again.

“Tony?” Happy’s question went unspoken.

Tony looked back at the man. His smile grew a touch more real. “She shouldn’t be left alone,” was all he could say to that. “Not right now.”

Happy nodded in understanding, and that grateful look Tony felt so undeserving of took over his face again.

Tony ignored it.

:::

When they came knocking, May opened the door with a knowing look on her face. She’d clearly expected them to come her way, after watching the speech.

“May,” Tony greeted. He didn’t feel like breaking down at the mere sight of her anymore. That was something. _Progress, am I right?_

He chuckled bitterly. _Would you have been proud of me, Peter?_

May nodded back. There was gratitude in her eyes, too, so akin to Happy’s that Tony had to look away briefly. When he turned to her again, though, the expression was still there, shamelessly coloring her face.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“You shouldn’t have to thank me,” Tony insisted. “It’s what Peter deserved.”

May smiled sadly. “He would have thought otherwise.”

The look on Tony’s face mirrored hers. “I know,” his voice was hushed. “I know.” _He was wrong. He was so, so wrong. He deserved the world._

May swallowed tightly. Her eyes drifted from Tony to Happy, and the soul-crushing grief was back. “Oh, Happy,” she whispered. “You’re here.” May looked back at Tony. “You’re both here.”

Tony nodded. May, wordlessly, moved away from the doorway so they could both enter. Tony watched, guilt brewing in the pit of his stomach, as May slowly returned to the living room, moving with a decided lack of liveliness that unsettled him.

May was one of the strongest women he knew. She ranked right up there with the likes of Pepper Potts and Natasha Romanoff. To see her like this, so defeated, was _wrong._

There was nothing he could say about it. How could he judge her when he’d been the same way? When he still felt like that?

“Tea?” May offered, sinking into the sofa like it was the only thing holding her up. “Coffee?”

“No, that’s okay,” Tony shook his head politely, following May onto the sofa. Happy quietly settled in beside him.

“How are you doing, May?” Happy asked when Tony couldn’t, because how could he ask her that when _he_ wouldn’t even know how to answer, if he was the one on the receiving end of that question?

May seemed to struggle with finding an answer, too. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m just getting through all of this—life without Peter—day by day. _Every_ day.”

What else was there to do, when there was no reason to smile anymore?

“I’m still sorry,” Tony blurted out when the silence in the apartment and the restlessness in his head became too much. He pressed the underside of his palm against his head, willing away the voices to no avail.

May nodded. “I know, Tony. And you still have nothing to be sorry for.”

He looked away. Why didn’t she blame him?

It was his fault. Peter was gone— _gone gone gone—_ and it was because of him.

“I dragged him into this life,” he argued. Why couldn’t she _see_ that?

“He became Spider-Man before he met you,” she pointed out.

“But he went onto that spaceship because of _me_ ,” the words stung to say, but they were true. “His exact words were ‘speaking of loyalty.’ He was there because he was blindly loyal to _me_ , and I didn’t even have the decency to turn the ship back around. I have _everything_ to be sorry for.”

“No, you don’t,” she insisted. “You were his hero. Of course he came after you.”

“I never meant to... I didn’t want him to get hurt. I just wanted to give him everything he wanted and more. I wanted to see him win over the whole world the way he won me over. God, May, he could’ve achieved _so much_ ,” his throat constricted around the words, and he had to fight to see, to breathe through the pain. “He could’ve done so many great things.”

“ _Amazing_ things,” Happy murmured.

“He had his whole life ahead of him,” Tony whispered, like it was a secret. “And it was stolen from him, just like that. Now he’ll never have the chance to show everyone else why he was the best kid all of us knew.”

“The very best,” May agreed, laughing wetly. “He could’ve changed the world.”

“He _did_ change the world,” Tony corrected. “Spider-Man changed so many people’s lives for the better. He went out there every night and saved people who’d already resigned themselves to believing they couldn’t _be_ saved. In every possible way, he was so much better than the Avengers, than _me_ , because where we didn’t even realize we had a duty to save the ordinary people, too, Peter was already looking after all the little guys. Peter cared so much.”

A strangled sob tore out of May’s throat. She fell back against the sofa and cradled her head in her hands, crying violently, desperately.

“But Spider-Man wasn't the only one who made a difference. Peter Parker changed the world, too,” Tony said earnestly. “He changed _mine_.”

May cried harder.

“I’ll never stop being sorry,” Tony whispered the words like a prayer. “He was my kid, but May, he was your son, and I – _fuck,_ I can’t—”

“It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t do this,” she denied hoarsely. She didn’t know how many times she had to repeat it to get him to believe it. “I know you loved him, too. Better than anyone, I know the effect Peter has on people. He’s been changing my world since he was six, after all.”

Tony closed his eyes.

“ _I hate Thanos_ ,” May‘s voice quivered as her chest heaved and she gasped for breath. “He took Peter from me. He took _my boy,_ Tony. He was – he was _all_ I had left. When Ben died, I felt like drowning, but Peter was always there to save me. But what am I supposed to do now? How do I bounce back from losing my child?”

Tony didn’t have an answer.

The truth was, he’d been asking himself the same thing over and over again, on repeat, for three weeks.

_How am I supposed to say goodbye to you?_

_How am I supposed to live like this?_

_How am I supposed to heal?_

He couldn’t.

All he could do was hold onto Peter’s memory like a lifeline.

All he could do was keep fighting for the day Peter, and everyone else who’d disappeared, could come back.

**Author's Note:**

> So, full disclosure: I set about writing this purely to indulge my own desire of seeing The Tony Stark absolutely destroy Flash in front of his peers and put the bully in his place.
> 
> Except Peter wasn’t actually supposed to be dead in this fic, but my writing had a mind of its own, apparently, and halfway through I looked at it and thought, “Half the world is dead, dumbass—nobody is going to care about Flash bullying Peter when Peter’s gone. Hell, Flash isn’t going to care about Flash bullying Peter. There are more important things to worry about.”
> 
> So this came to be instead, and instead of seeing Flash quivering in his boots you get him maybe, possibly gaining an appreciation for the precious wonder that is Peter Parker. I'm likely going to end up writing a second chapter where Peter is alive and everything has been fixed (as kind of a “...and the second time Tony Stark came to Midtown High” bonus), which is why I left this as a multi-chapter work. I might also write out Iron Dad teaching bully!Flash a lesson some other time (please comment if you’d like to maybe see that). 
> 
> Side-note: This ended up way longer than I imagined it being. I had no intention of making this so long, but I guess the characters had their own ideas. Honestly, what the hell.
> 
> Also, I just wanted to get this up and posted, so I haven't actually proofread it yet. I will go back eventually and edit out any mistakes I find, but for now you'll have to deal with any typos and grammatical mistakes there are, sorry. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed, and feel free to comment and give me any feedback you have (we all love comments, let's be real) <3
> 
>  
> 
> \- s.f.w.


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